


Here Comes The Sun

by lazywriter7



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers Tower, Awkward Romance, Blind Date, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Avengers (2012), Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 22:32:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14861519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazywriter7/pseuds/lazywriter7
Summary: For the prompt:  “you’re supposed to be on a blind date with someone but you sat down at the wrong table and i haven’t been able to get a word in edgewise to tell you that and it’s been thirty minutes” au“Cap, I think there’s been a-”I, Steve clamped down on his miserable anxiety with characteristic anger,am not going to fuck this up.“My favourite colour is blue.” Steve interjected, because screw charm and suaveness and everything else, he was going to do this on the power of sheerdetermination.





	Here Comes The Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to mega-mathi who cheered me on to finally finish this fluff fest, and ishipallthings who left this lovely prompt on imzy originally, ages ago. You guys are da best <3
> 
> Title taken from "Here Comes The Sun' by The Beatles.

The café was nothing noteworthy in itself, casual and breezy with a couple of tables set out in the sun, shaded by parasols looming overhead; and some more set up in the interior with mismatched chairs for those who liked to really breathe in the scent of caffeine in the morning.

It reminded Steve of a dollhouse, really – a real-size replica of a model manufactured by the thousands, with its pastel chintz tablecloths and lacquer floorboards. A stock establishment to be found in any tourist-y hotspot, perfectly inoffensive, nothing particularly memorable. And wasn’t that true of nearly every place he’d strayed into in this modern age…chains, people called them, establishments rolled out by rote, based on one formula. No space for variation. Even the creative little ‘quirks’ in design and aesthetic were pre-planned, and duplicated in a hundred other stores of the same ‘brand’ in the country. No space for a personal touch. No pub down the road with a frame of the owner’s prizewinning stallion in pride of place over the mantelpiece, and genial ol’ Mr Garcia bragging about the Triple Crown win of ’29.

But people these days didn’t care too much for that, did they. Maybe Steve wasn’t such a cheap date after all. Even if the café  _ was  _ on the ground floor of Stark Tower.

He’d been lingering on the outskirts of the place for over fifteen minutes now, more than the time it took for him to ‘get ready’ and zoom down the elevator from his apartment combined. JARVIS had told him he’d had a cowlick at the back of his head in said elevator; Steve had licked his palm and flattened it down on reflex. That had been the extent of his vanity – he was in his usual khakis-and-button-down combo, and it was only as he fidgeted with the leaves of the potted geraniums on the café exterior for the umpteenth time that it registered that maybe Natasha wouldn’t be all too pleased with his ‘efforts’.

_ “Give this one a chance, Steve. An honest chance.” _

Contrary to outward appearances, he was…. trying, alright? It was just that Natasha kept tossing the names of people he scarcely even remembered, forget developed an actual interest in, his way and he was too busy reflexively ducking to actually consider any of them with seriousness and this metaphor had escaped from him three phrases back but damn if he was going to give up without a fight.

It was all just too reminiscent of a sly grey-eyed stare, a jostle of the shoulder,  _ “c’mon Rogers, one hour down at the hall, no one’s gonna step on you, I swear Abbie is a really sweet gal−”  _ and even putting aside how well  _ those  _ times had gone, it just left Steve with an indistinct ache in the pit of his stomach and rapid, wet-eyed blinking. He didn’t  _ want  _ to be set up. He didn’t want new people to ‘spice up’ his life. Why was that so hard to grasp?

But chapter five of  _ How to Get Out of Your Mind and Start Living  _ insisted that the support of his current friends and…family, was ‘key’. That people had sources of help all around them, all they needed to do was tap into that concern and care and be helped. And Natasha did care for him, and demonstrated it in a way she so rarely did; Steve would be an ungrateful sod not to appreciate the value of that. So he was going to walk into this café with an open mind and…whatever would happen thereon, would happen.

He pushed open the door without much fanfare for all the lingering he had been doing, fingers leaving smudges on the foggy glass. Autumn was approaching and there was a nip in the air; most of the café’s patrons had thin cardigans or jackets draped over their chairs, or a scarf winding around pale necks. The contrast between temperatures was palpable; the air inside was warm and toasty (literally so, Steve could separate out the smells of at least three different flavours of bagels crackling as they were heated, fragrances bright and crystalline sharp). Not many of the glossy wooden tables were unoccupied – it was evidently quite the popular haunt and Steve could…get why, despite all his uncharitable thoughts in the beginning.

_ Chapter Two: The Importance of a Positive Outlook. Always think of the brightest outcome possible before entering a situation.  _ Something out of one of those romantic comedies Bruce liked to put on as background noise, maybe. A bright-eyed girl who taught kindergarten in the day and worked in a puppy shelter by night, who was more or less indifferent to the Avengers, who by some miracle of fate liked Steve…yeah, that seemed about right. Five dates on, he’d tearfully propose, she’d joyfully accept, they wouldn’t have sex till the wedding night, and after a brief honeymoon in the Pocono Mountains which she’d  _ of course  _ agree to because she adored his precious little forties foibles like that – they’d retire peacefully in a house with a picket fence. Or you know, move in a matchbox high-rise apartment because Stark would probably evict them due to his moral objection to the institution of marriage, and then they’d get a dog who only got walked up and down the stairs and put their names two years in advance for daycare. Marital bliss, hallelujah.

Steve knuckled the bridge of his nose wearily. Yeah, this ‘imagine the brightest outcome’ thing was going  _ smashingly _ .

He dropped his fingers, shoving them into the pockets of his khakis with ease (modern jeans with all their rivets were so inconvenient). Scanned through the scattered milieu of people already seated at different tables. Positive outcome, positive outcome. Pretty girl with ‘wife and family’ branded across her forehead like a billboard, yup yup…

Or, you know. Tony Stark with his nose hidden behind a menu card. That worked too.

_ I didn’t know cafes had menu cards,  _ was the first thought to dart, tiny and petrified, through the wasted battlefield that was Steve’s mind. All sanity, come here to die. The second thought was,  _ it’s just like that song _ – which was  _ ridiculous  _ because Steve and Stark had never even batted their eyelashes at each other affectionately, forget being in a full-blown relationship, and  _ Pina Colada  _ had undertones of infidelity that Steve was uncomfortable with anyway−

_ Liar. You love that song.  _ Natasha crowed in his head in a very Natasha like way, which meant she stated it with an impassive face and subtly smug voice, eyes gleaming knowingly. Which was moot, because this was nothing like  _ Pina Colada,  _ even if Steve knew the curve of the face that Stark was hiding under that maroon scarf, eyes attentively studying the glossy white card before him.

Steve stood frozen in place for what seemed like minutes on end, mind grappling with this…entirely unforeseen set of circumstances. Tony Stark. Sitting…entirely innocently in a café in his own Tower, yeah that made sense, except all the ways in which it  _ didn’t _ . Not in the least because Stark’s espresso machines could blow this place out of the water in mere seconds; Stark prized efficiency as well as quality in his coffees, as he liked to declaim to them at breakfast every now and then.

So yeah. Tony Stark, sitting in a café where Steve was supposed to be meeting his blind date. That was…quite the situation. The only question remained: what was Steve going to do about it?

And that was where Steve had to blink, and shake his head internally – because when had he last made that kind of choice? Everything he dealt with in his day-to-day life these days, he was always…reactionary. The flinch of unease at every new thing he had to accustom himself to, every remnant of something old that made nostalgia jar sharp and painful in his ribcage. He never  _ thought  _ about anything, much anymore. It was all just a roiling wave of emotion that Steve had resigned himself to ride out, except it never really ebbed; just tossed and turned till Steve shook with the weariness of it all. Shook and buckled his shoulders against a storm that never seemed to pass.

But here he stood, caught in indecision, watching black spiking up at the back of a tanned neck, like Stark had kept his head tightly covered by the grey hood of the jacket he was sporting, only to release it in the coffee-scented air of the café and static-fuzzy hair had sprung up in response, wild and liberated. No first date efforts taken there, either.

The thought coaxed a mindless smile to his lips, even as Steve waited for the wave to come. That instinctive rush of distaste, unease. Irritation at Nat for the ploy, anything at all. The urge to turn around and leave, the advice of self-help books be damned.

A woman brushed past his shoulders on her way to the door; Steve stepped forward instinctively to clear the path, and then his feet kept moving, forward and forward while his mind churned in a manner that oddly wasn’t that unpleasant.

_ “Give this one a chance, Steve.” _

_ Natasha  _ thought this was a good idea. And Stark had to have agreed to this in order to be here. Sure, it was technically a blind date…but when was the last time that Tony Stark had gone into a situation blind? Without extensive research, all available information stored somewhere in that genius head of his… _ ”since when did you become an expert on thermonuclear astrophysics? Last night.”  _ Stark wouldn’t agree to spend half an hour of his precious time with a date without knowing their bank account details and name of their favourite highschool teacher.

_ Unless he’s sleeping with them. Apparently, he’s done that without even knowing their name _ , aaaand Steve jerked himself away from that particular train of thought quick, neck warming up slightly. The conclusion was: it was uncharacteristic of Tony Stark to go on something as innocuous as a date without prior research. The man was perennially, fatally curious. And it wasn’t like it would be a hard thing for him to pull off anyway – he had access to the feeds of the common areas through JARVIS, spying on the conversation where Nat finally wheedled Steve into a date was very much in the realm of possibility.

So. Tony Stark  _ knew  _ he was going on a date with Steve and he…agreed. Steve wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that. And wasn’t that interesting?

Steve was now close enough to spot the long fingers that Stark ( _ Tony,  _ Steve tested cautiously at the back of his mind, something almost exhilarated in the inflection,  _ Tony _ ) wrapped around his coffee mug, workshop grime sticking under his nails. The vee of his unzipped jacket revealed the soft black cotton of a tee, peeking amidst the fraying maroon threads of a scarf lazily looped over his collarbones. Dark stonewash jeans, folded untidily over a pair of Converse, with loosely knotted, muddy grey laces trailing over the polished lacquer of the floor.

Steve picked out these fragments in slow, careful detail, back of his neck growing steadily warmer all the while.  _ “Pretty positive outcome, heh.”  _ Bucky’s voice drawled in his mind, strangely free of the shackles of regretful memory, and Steve bit into his lower lip, feeling the thin skin crack under his incisor. This was veering from ‘interesting’ to a whole new category altogether.

Because the idea of Sta−of  _ Tony  _ being amenable to something between them…what could that mean? Tony was smart-mouthed and arrogant and inconsiderate− except wasn’t it just that he spat quick-formed insults and clever references at  _ Steve _ , and he arrogantly lifted his goateed chin and looked down his nose in condescension at  _ Steve  _ and spoke blunt and sharp in equal measure, regardless of  _ Steve’s  _ plans and opinions and feelings and…what was Steve’s hostility going to stand on, if Tony wasn’t going to be hostile towards him at all?

If he possibly…liked Steve?

Two steps away, enough to see that Tony had read through the same line perhaps a half-dozen times and was now quite possibly debating the differences between Helvetica and Helvetica Bold. Steve cleared his throat.

For the minute sound that it was, Tony positively  _ leapt  _ out of his skin. His elbow hit the wooden underside of the table, the chair legs dragging noisily against the floor as he staggered to his feet. Dark eyes shot up to Steve’s face and then away, unshielded by coloured glasses.

“I..erm.” Tony seemed to have lost control over his vocal faculties. His eyes were watering slightly, possibly from the pain of his elbow knocking into the solid wood. The words, when they came, exited in a messy spill. “This. This is my Tower.”

_ I thought you said it belonged to all the Avengers now _ , though the tone was less taunting, more…fond. Steve just nodded, lips curving up slightly. “Okay.”

“My Tower.” Tony repeated. Blinked once, as if mentally clarifying where he was getting at with this. Nodded in turn, chin bobbing up and down. “I’m allowed to be here. So there.”

“I’m sure.” Steve couldn’t quite stop the smile from taking full form on his face, waving a hand towards the chair Tony had knocked askew. “Care to sit down?”

Tony stared at him suspiciously, like he hadn’t quite figured out the mechanics or motivation behind Steve’s facial muscles doing the weird smile thing. Sat down slowly, fingers going up to tug at the fraying end of his scarf, wool winding around his index finger.

Steve pulled up the opposing chair, watching Tony’s eyes bug out of their sockets even more as he lowered himself into it. Dragged his palms over the khaki stretching across his thighs, pushing out a slightly unsteady breath. Found the smile sitting just as easily on his lips as it had half a minute ago. “Fancy seeing you here.”

A dull thunk echoed between them, like Tony had just started again and banged his knees on the underside of the table in the process. His eyes were darting over Steve’s features like a rampant pinball machine, absolutely refusing to settle on Steve’s eyes. “Look Steve, I- this wasn’t- I know you can’t be very happy with me right now but-”

“No, I don’t-” Tony clamped his mouth immediately when Steve began speaking; it had the effect of Steve’s words drying up in his throat as well, watching Tony’s eyes look at him apprehensively. Shit. What had he wanted to say anyway? “I don’t…um. I don’t really. Mind.”

_ Wow Rogers, flooring performance. Really making him feel wanted, aren’t ya? _

Tony’s eyebrows had gone winging up to his hairline. “You don’t?”

“No-o.” Damn. Why was Sta- _ Tony  _ behaving like he was the one needing the assurances, anyway? Steve pushed out a nervous laugh, lips pressing together tightly in the aftermath. “I mean…you can’t exactly be unused to that? What with the billionaire, philanthropist, genius-”

_ So original, Stevie. He’s absolutely  _ **_never_ ** _ heard those glowing adjectives, certainly not from his own damn mouth- _

_ Shut  _ **_up_ ** _ , Buck.  _ For all of the internal growling, Steve was feeling progressively more pathetic by the minute.

“-playboy asshole, yeah I know.” Tony completed with a nod and a resigned smirk, and Steve nodded along-  _ wait, what?  _ “Guess you must’ve been expecting a stunt like this.”

“I don’t think you’re a-” The words exited Steve’s mouth automatically, but were promptly halted in place by a crook of Tony’s eyebrow, eloquently spelling out-  _ really? _

“Only to those who deserve it.” Steve amended with a slight wince, and reluctantly thought back to all of his own straight-backed, wide shouldered, righteous jaw posturing in the not-so-distant past. Hell, he had been a total cad to his future café wife inside his head and he hadn’t even met her. “And I can admit that I usually do. Deserve it.”

Tony was watching him strangely, eyes dark in frank, unreadable appraisal. Steve could feel the warmth beginning to creep up the bottom of his button-down collar again.

Silence lingered at their table for a while, before Tony broke it slowly. “You’re taking this much better than I thought you would.”

“I’m a little surprised too.” And Steve and mental Bucky groaned in unison inside his head, because god _he was_ _terrible at this_. No wonder any dame wouldn’t give him the time of day. “I mean. We just…uh, got off on the wrong foot earlier-” _and again and again and-_ “and I wouldn’t have actually imagined going on a- a date with someone like you,” _take that judgey Cap off you idiot,_ “so…intelligent and innovative and fearless and sprinting up ahead of the times,” _and now you’re a breathless fanboy, well done,_ “but I couldn’t really bring myself to walk out of the café when I saw you so I was just. Surprised.”

Quiet.

_ Well that was an unmitigated disaster. _

Practically feeling the heat steaming off his face at this point, Steve was expecting either a disdainful moue or a snort of well-deserved laughter. Tony however, remained seated, uncharacteristically still, fingers motionless around his scarf ends. His lips flickered for a few seconds, Steve waiting out the silence in utter misery, blinking thrice before clearing his throat and repeating all too inexplicably, “On a date with someone like-”

_ You.  _ Steve was on a date with Tony fucking Stark.

“Cap, I think there’s been a-”

_ I,  _ Steve clamped down on his miserable anxiety with characteristic anger,  _ am not going to fuck this up. _

“My favourite colour is blue.” Steve interjected, because screw charm and suaveness and everything else, he was going to do this on the power of sheer  _ determination _ . No one could say Captain America didn’t have that. “Not the light, powdery kind. Robin’s egg, a bit of cyan. Darker the better.”

Tony blinked at him again. His lashes curled out slightly at the edges. Steve had never seen a man with eyelashes like that. “That’s…nice, I guess.”

“I like bagels. Freshly made, seven in the morning. Plain is nice, but sesame seed is better.”  _ I never tasted fresh bread after my ma died.  _ But no, that was too dark for a first date. “The serum made it so I wouldn’t be allergic to anything, but anchovies still make me nauseous. Running is nice too. I like running before the sun comes up.”

“Not that all that isn’t positively scintillating, Cap, but you don’t have to-”

“Swimming!” Steve blurted. His fingers were tapping faster and faster on his knee, probably a blur at this point. “I’m a soldier, but I never learned how to swim. People find that strange. I like old movies. From my time. Proper old, not when da- women say they like old movies these days and talk about flicks from the goddamn eighties.”

“I’m partial to  _ ‘The Last Starfighter’ _ myself.” Tony murmured almost absently. “Steve, listen to me-”

_ Where are your manners, Steven, hogging all the conversation like that.  _ Peggy’s reproving tone echoed in the caverns of his head,  _ let the man talk, for Pete’s sake.  _ “What’s…uh, yours?”

More confused blinking. Even through the dulled panic, Steve’s eyes were drawn to the motion. Dark lashes, up and down, up and down. Heck, this wasn’t even like ogling Tony when he was flying in loop-de-loops, for heaven’s sake; the entire human race  _ blinked _ , it wasn’t exactly spellbinding, what was wrong with Steve–

“What’s my what?”

“Favourite colour.”

The answer to that question, Steve reflected in the silence that followed – not the fucking colour one, the one just before, ricocheting wildly off the walls of his empty head – was  _ everything. _

“I’m sorry.” Steve heard the words drop uselessly out of his own mouth. “That’s a stupid question.”

“No, no.” Tony laughed – then paused for a second, as if taken by surprise by its sound.

_ Wellll, at least he’s laughing.  _ Bucky observed.  _ Even if it’s at you. _

The smooth, shining surface of the table was looking more and more tempting by the second. Steve wondered if it would survive the impact with his forehead. “Shut up.”

Steve didn’t realise he’d actually vocalised till Tony’s brows crooked. “I’m sorry?”

“No, not you…just. Voices.” Steve said lamely, and then let the words hang there; too miserable to be appropriately horrified. He’d grown familiar enough with the modern times to know what  _ that  _ had just sounded like.

_ A good soldier knows to quit while he’s ahead. You did your best, Rogers. _

Apart from the fact that his best…well, to borrow a modern colloquialism,  _ sucked. _ Steve exhaled, tight and despairing. “I’ll just go.”

“You probably should.” For all that Tony was smiling, gentler than Steve had ever seen him, the words still hit hard. “My fault entirely, shouldn’t have come here in the first place. You should probably look for the person you actually–”

“Have a shot at? Yeah, I get it.” Steve bit out, knees knocking against the table as he rushed to his feet – and regretted the words instantly. Tony was being so  _ kind _ , he’d had met dames that wouldn’t sit through ten seconds of that joke he called a conversation, and here Steve was messing it all up with his humiliated resentment. His nails dug into his palms, lips pressing together tightly even as he struggled to parse the words out in a dignified tone. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…you’re right, this was a mistake. Thank you for giving this a chance anyway, I know this isn’t exactly your kind of…” A deep exhale. “Who’m I kidding, it’s a throwaway café at the bottom of your  _ Tower _ , this is miles away from anything you’re accustomed to, I don’t know what I was hoping for–”

The lines on Tony’s face were growing deeper as Steve went on, eyebrows pulling down, something faintly distressed about the curve of that mouth. “No Steve, it isn’t like–”

“Bye Tony.” Steve forced out, and Tony’s expression changed strangely in response – right, he hadn’t been informed of the Stark-to-Tony change that Steve’s euphoric,  _ idiotic  _ brain had made when he’d first glimpsed that dark head in the bustle of the café.

His chair dragged against the floor as his palms pushed away from the table, hands coming to hang rigidly at his side as he turned away. Right, so. First course of action – go up to his floor and rip the spine out of  _ How to Get Out of Your Mind and Start Living.  _ And then set it on fire, though he’d probably have to enquire about incinerators first. There were apparently pollution laws for this kinda thing now. And then maybe look up that site Barton was recommending for people who wanted to meet other people, but not do much talking. Steve didn’t want to open his mouth again for the rest of his life. The site had the oddest name though, something about inflammable wood –

“Steve.” Something snagged at his wrist. Steve glanced down, saw tanned fingers and grease under nails. “Wait.”

His eyes flicked back to Tony’s face of their own accord, heart frozen for a beat. Apprehension and a myriad of other emotions were warring in Tony’s features, contorting and twisting and looking for all the world like he had no idea what business his hand had wrapped around Steve’s wrist.

“Are you going to keep holding my hand,” The words were falling out of Steve’s mouth, roughly hewn with the tiniest tinge of desperation, “or are you going to actually say anything?”

“I vote both.” Tony returned with a smoothness that surprised even him, if the rocketing eyebrows that followed that declaration were any indication. He stared down at the table, gave it an affirming nod, and looked up – once unreadable eyes resolving into determination. “Can we do both?”

Steve’s mind was stuck in static, and before he even knew it, he was being guided inexorably back down; knees folding and tailbone hitting the chair, hand encased in Tony’s warm, calloused grip. It was his turn to blink confusedly, heart thundering to life under a chest that threatened to burst.  _ I don’t understand _ , he meant to say, except –

“Are you sure?” Slipped out instead, cracking at the edges a little.

Tony stared back at him, jaw firm and eyes unwavering. His hand didn’t twitch, forefinger and thumb tucked around Steve’s wrist bones, palm cupping the knuckles. “Absolutely.”

And then his eyes dipped, almost as if conscious, mouth reduced to a blur and vowels and consonants escaping helter-skelter. “I mean, when you strode onto the Helicarrier in that spangly outfit, I was pretty much  _ but soft, what light through yonder window breaks  _ and all that jazz–”

A snort escaped Steve without his cognizance, eyes widening after as Tony’s own narrowed in turn. “What, you find Shakespeare hilarious, Rogers?”

“Just thought someone modern might be more up to your speed.” Steve managed to reply without stumbling, still all too conscious of the exact location and status of his left hand. Was his skin clammy? It was clammy, wasn’t it? “I dunno. Uh, Han Solo?”

“We aren’t there yet, hun.” Tony replied easily, like the two of them together, like this, wasn’t still making Steve’s head throw up an Error 404. Oh, he should probably say that out loud sometime. Tony would like the reference.

“Barmy old coot that he may be, Shakespeare still has his uses.” And now Steve’s hand was being taken even farther away from him, hovering close to Tony’s chin –  _ oh god, that’s where his lips are ­ _ – Tony’s fingers sliding around all too easily to wrap around Steve’s own, thumb brushing the knuckles. But hell if Steve could concentrate on any of that – it was like his and Tony’s sightlines had infallibly tangled together, and he couldn’t look away any more than he could hush the thrumming blood in his veins, roaring in his ears. Tony smiled, a flash of white incisor in the midst of all that enrapturing darkness. “ _ It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. _ ”

Steve’s neck  _ burned _ . Seized with the inexorable urge to drop his eyes – no, to knock Tony’s hand aside and curl his fingers into that thrice-damned scarf and  _ pull _ , right over the table till Tony’s elbows knocked into the wood and his chest heaved and smirking lips parted –

Tony broke the eye contact. His lashes swept down, colour bursting to life on olive skin, rich and sparse, like wheat browning under the glorious sun. His lips barely moved in a murmur, “You have quite the sweltering gaze, Captain.”

“I have good inspiration.” Steve returned on autopilot.  _ Huh, not bad. _

Tony seemed to agree, eyebrows flying up to skim his hairline. His cheeks were still faintly coloured, “That is the smoothest thing you’ve said all afternoon.”

“It didn’t have much competition.” And Tony snickered as if in agreement, but Steve could feel his own lips curving to echo his, tightness in his chest easing away to leave something far lighter behind. This didn’t feel mean. This didn’t feel mean at all. This felt more akin to Peggy pursing her scarlet lips, bright-eyed with ill-concealed amusement, all  _ ‘you really don’t know how to talk to women, do you.’ _

“You aren’t half as eloquent as you are when you’re all mad and Captain-ly.” Tony observed, eyes skating searchingly over Steve’s features. It made Steve’s skin prickle, and not unpleasantly. Tony’s mouth crooked, soft and discreet, more fetching than all the flagrant smirks in the world. “It’s charming.”

Steve cleared his throat, Tony’s smile growing even more delighted in response. “Uh. Wanna order something?”

And so it went on. They didn’t chat constantly, about everything and nothing like the closest of pals because they…well. Weren’t. But there was something here, Steve thought – something about how Tony’s smug grins and salacious comments didn’t ruffle his feathers half as much as they used to, something about how Steve’s blunt words didn’t make Tony stiffen in his seat. They weren’t immediately jumping to the worst conclusions about each other, jagged edges melting to run and flow together. Assured of his welcome, Steve’s words grew stronger and more confident – all the while his heart skipped a merry beat, hand growing warmer and warmer in Tony’s unceasing clasp.

“I always found it inherently ridiculous when they said it in the movies,” The sun was in its final lap, orange and gold streaks shooting across an indigo sky. Tony leaned casually against the café door, one ankle crossed over the other – how long had it been? Two hours? Three? Steve hadn’t been keeping count. “But I’m starting to think I haven’t been going on the right kind of dates. This  _ was  _ nice, Steve.”

Steve shifted on his feet, shoulders slouched, all too conscious of obstructing the entrance to the café. Tony seemed unconcerned, shoulder blades propped against the glass, fingers still holding Steve’s left hand hostage.

_ Maybe you can ransom it with a kiss _ , Bucky sniggered – Tony dropping his hand immediately as if he had a direct line to Steve’s deranged head. Steve flexed his fingers in the empty air, trying to clamp down on the disappointment. “Yeah?”

“Hmm.” Tony hummed. His freed hands reached up to wrap the faded maroon scarf more securely round his clavicles, lingering at the soft neckline of his tee after. Steve ached. “When I first met you, you felt like…the gathered essence of every asshole who thought they knew exactly what I was made of.”

Steve’s gut twisted in unease. “I’m so–”

“Uh-uh hero, still talking.” Tony stepped close, restless fingers reaching out to fiddle with the lowest button on Steve’s shirt. Caught before an exhale, Steve stopped breathing. “Today though. Today you asked me what my favourite colour was, like something out of  _ Clueless,  _ or a seventh-grade dating manual.”

If he breathed out now, Tony’s knuckles would brush past his abdomen. Lungs drawn tight, Steve could barely push out the words. “It was stu–”

“Guy flying around in a red-and-gold suit of armour.” Tony interrupted again, blunt nails scraping down the rough cotton, peeking between the buttoned gaps. “And you ask my favourite colour. Hell, maybe I’m reading too much into this – scratch that, I totally am, but that.” The quietest of breaths, dark irises flitting up. “That, wasn’t presumptuous at all. And I liked it.”

Beat. Beat. Steve exhaled. Tony tilted his chin up, as if to catch the warm breath on his own lips, chapped pink skin fluttering minutely.

They were so close now.

And then it struck him, as clear as his instinct before flinging the shield at a target, mind mapping out angles and trajectories. Nothing that had happened during this  _ date  _ had come naturally to Steve, and yet there wasn’t a split second’s hesitation in his frame as he tilted his head back from Tony’s uplifted face, gentle yet decisive. His loosely hanging hands came up to encircle Tony’s wrists in turn, detaching his fingers from Steve’s shirt with a soft tug.

Tony’s eyes flickered open, dark and confused. Steve could feel a rabbiting pulse, as his thumbs grazed over the thin skin of those wrists. Soft and low, his voice was mere vibration held captive in the enclosed space between their bodies.

“Who’s being presumptuous now?”

He held on, long enough just to feel Tony’s shiver, and then dropped them. Counted out two blinks before Tony’s mouth curled, eyes gleaming; denied and pleased somehow all at once. “You’re an asshole, Rogers.”

“Only to those who deserve it.” And his heart was anxiously, traitorously thudding away all the while, but his voice held and Tony laughed outright, almost breathless. God.  _ God. _

His grin was probably far too broad to be as smooth as he was trying to project himself, but Steve couldn’t care less. Not anymore. A step back, and another, till he was nudging the door open with his back, Tony’s glowing eyes following him all the way.

“See you later, Tony.” And he could  _ hear  _ Tony’s pleased inhale at the name, and Steve turned around, hands reaching down to slip into his pockets, lips struggling to hold the sheer force of his smile. Walked away, with an almost jaunty spring to his stride.

_ Nothing to say now? _

_ Well done hotshot, you and Stark can fondue from now till the end of eternity,  _ Bucky pronounced flatly – but Steve knew better. Could imagine the mocking words of his best pal all the way from the forties, coupled with that proud little glint in his eye.

_ God Buck, if only you  _ **_could_ ** _ see me now. _

_ I am _ , Bucky promised – and Steve allowed himself this. This not-delusion, on the day he went on a fucking  _ brilliant  _ date, if he said so himself, with Tony goddamn Sta –

With  _ Tony. _

Right, so. Course of action.  _ How to Get Out of Your Mind and Start Living  _ could probably live to see another day, Barton could keep his website. He had a Black Widow to personally thank.

 

~

 

He caught her in an elevator.

Well, not quite. He was waiting on the ground floor, trying to remember how to whistle without his hands. It seemed like a whistling kind of moment. Or a whistling kind of day.

_ Tongue to the back of the throat, loosen the jaw…  _ The elevator  _ dinged  _ quietly, steel doors opening with a swish. Steve did his best to straighten up whatever odd face he’d been pulling.

Judging from Natasha’s almost-expression, he didn’t quite succeed. She was in a dark green sweater that hung loosely on her frame, hair scooped on her neck in a side-bun. She was the loveliest, most generous angel to ever walk the face of this planet.

_ Oh Stevie. _

They moved in synchrony, switching places smoothly as Steve stepped in and Natasha moved out. Steve turned around and shot what was probably the soppiest smile he’d ever sported in her direction. “Thanks. He was great.”

A tiny pause. “He.” Natasha repeated, with absolutely no inflection whatsoever.

The elevator doors closed.

Any other person would have scrambled for the ‘open door’ button immediately. Steve had faster reflexes than most people.

He stood, motionless, staring at his discoloured reflection in the elevator doors as it began to rise.

Steady jazz started tinkling somewhere in the background – he remembered being…if not soothed, then touched by the thought the first time he’d taken the elevator in Avengers Tower.

“JARVIS, could you turn off the music please.”

The music subsided.

He watched it happen over seventy-one floors. Watched his expression waver, smile crumpling inwards, before his jaw took over and set itself – firm and brittle. Watched the thoughts and realisations track through his eyes, overcast blues turning leaden. It was a remarkable parallel of his thought processes down in the café, actually…before he’d sat down. Three minutes of mounting hope and epiphany, in exact reverse.

Tony Stark was in the café. Tony Stark owned the Tower the café was at, and even if he didn’t, was perfectly within his rights to be there. There was no logical explanation for Tony Stark to be hanging around at a sub-par café the afternoon of Steve’s date. Tony Stark had access to the common area feeds, and probably spied on Natasha persuading Steve into a blind date.

The data was all the same – Steve had just come to the utterly wrong conclusion. Because he was biased and blind. And stupid and lonely.

_ Tony Stark likes me and wants to date me _ .

– versus Tony Stark took an hour out of his extremely busy schedule to spy on Steve making a complete fool out of himself on a date with another woman.

Yeah. The winner was pretty clear on that one.

It was…funny, probably. That’s why Tony did it. It was funny, and Steve didn’t get it, because he didn’t get most jokes these days. Like those videos of men proposing to their da – girlfriends, and getting awkwardly rejected and people taping the whole thing and livestreaming and tweeting and whatever else they did these days, snarky commentary that got a thousand likes. He could hear it even now:  _ here we can observe the dinosaur far removed from its natural habitat; a clumsy old drip tryna be smooth and thinking he’s got something to offer to a billionaire –  _ except he couldn’t even fucking make fun of himself right because people in this century didn’t even  _ say  _ drip anymore.

The elevator dinged. The steel doors slid open, Steve staring beyond into the recesses of his darkened floor.

“Captain?” JARVIS prompted quietly.

Steve exited the elevator, moving on autopilot for a few paces before coming to a standstill. The entire place was ‘open plan’, nothing but shine and glass and a sense of uneasiness that burrowed itself deep into Steve’s spine. It had taken months upon months to get over, an inch of tension unscrewing with every day – until Steve had woken up to a sea of rose and gold one morning, a startlingly bright sunrise that seemed to bleach all the shadows away.

Now the sun had already dipped below the horizon, everything he could see tinted dusk-grey. Not that there was much to see – the whole point of this kind of design was to ‘declutter the space’, never mind that it just felt empty. He could…he could move towards the kitchenette, make himself a pot of tea; steam winding idly up, crockery clinking loudly in the silence. Or flip through channels on his television, or climb into bed and pull the covers over his head, staring at absolutely nothing.

His head was silent.

 

“Captain. Sir is requesting your presence in his workshop, if you would please.”

_ Fuck him,  _ Steve thought, with absolutely no emotion left to muster. Except that didn’t…that wasn’t…

That wasn’t quite right.

_ Only to those who deserve it _ . And he’d been so sure about it too, felt it settle deep in his heart of cemented convictions. Yet it didn’t quite…line up with what Steve was feeling  _ now _ : resentment broken apart, all raw and tender inside.  _ It’s probably funny _ didn’t align with the phantom warmth of Tony’s hand for three hours straight, with his tiny, indrawn breath every time Steve called him by name.

It was hard. Hard to remember all the verbal blunders, the stammering, and not feel the sense of doomed certainty creeping on – it all just made so much  _ sense _ , if it were a joke. If Steve was the butt of it all, the dope who got told ‘you just won a million dollars!’ and  _ believed  _ it while people snickered behind hidden cameras. If this was another rejection in a long line of rejections, for something Steve hadn’t even known he wanted until three hours ago.

Except…and this was the part he kept butting up against. The part where Steve was feeling absolutely miserable, and the idea that that had been Tony’s intention.

_ “Cap, I think there’s been a-” _

_ “My fault entirely, shouldn’t have come here in the first place. You should probably look for the person you actually–” _

_ “I vote both. Can we do both?” _

_ “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.” _

When he breathed next, it came a little lighter – anxiety loosening its hold on his chest. Maybe he was wrong and it  _ was _ all just an elaborate construction of ridicule; but damn if Steve was going to be cowardly enough not to find out for sure.

“Tell him I’ll be there.”

 

~

 

He hadn’t realised until now, how different Tony had looked in the café.

It was probably the lighting. Everything about Tony’s face was sharp, deeply angular: the lines of his beard and the jut of his chin, and the penetrating, fluorescent light that Steve always saw him under only enhanced this effect. Iron Man was the one who flourished under the sun – swooping across blue skies in a swirl of fiery colour, bright enough to blind.

In the café, he’d looked…mellower, the golden rays of afternoon gentling his lines and edges; yet oddly still compelling. It was the difference, perhaps, between felt tip and oil paint – less polish, more intensity. Now, he was Tony Stark again – industrial-white bulbs overhead lighting his cheekbones in straight, unbroken lines. He was in the same t-shirt, hoodie out of sight, and his eyes appeared black enough to match.

(And yet, out of the corner of his eye, Steve could glimpse maroon wool – the scarf looped round and round what appeared to be a robotic arm.)

“I’m glad you came.” Tony started, words falling quick and efficient. His gaze was fixed just slightly off of Steve’s face, at some point beside his right ear. “There is something that I should’ve…something I need to tell you before you–”

“I spoke to Natasha.”

Tony fell silent. He blinked, thrice in rapid succession; nothing like the languid movements that had captivated Steve so only a couple of hours ago. He looked like he was trying to re-centre himself.

“I didn’t deserve it.” Steve said. “Not this time.”

Studied stillness, like the kind that came only by actively holding back a flinch. Steve watched Tony very carefully not react. Not argue, only dip his head after a second and quietly voice, “I’m sorry.”

_ Defend yourself you idiot. _

But that was okay. That was okay, because Steve was here and he might be the actual worst at first date conversation, but this. This he knew how to do.

There were no rules to bravery, no ways to judge, no way to fuck it up. Just to take the leap.

“Peggy always used to say that nuance was lost on me.” He didn’t stutter over her name, linger on its ending consonants with bitterness at the back of his throat. He just sounded fond. “She and Colonel Phillips used to have these long-drawn discussions about the changing state of international politics – countries and diplomacies and agendas. I listened in, and I appreciated it but…sometimes it just seemed a step removed from relevance.”

“In the field, I have to keep every possible factor in mind before making a call. But at some point, that means to stop thinking and start doing.” Despite his words, he was fidgeting with the base of his thumb. Steve stilled his hands, straightened his shoulders. His heartbeat was kicking up in his ears. “Sometimes it’s easier to…let the overwhelming complexity of it slide away, and simply make a choice.”

“I know that this isn’t that simple.”  _ Except for how it also is.  _ Steve lifted his chin, felt the pulse leap and skitter in his throat like something terrified and utterly free. “But to me, today was one of two things.”

“Either Tony Stark liked me,” Tony stared back at him, dark eyes and trembling mouth and absolutely no doubt whatsoever, “or he was an asshole. And we both know how I feel about the second option.”

Moments trailed away, ears ringing and veins flushed with adrenaline. No matter what happened next, Steve would never forget how this felt. Breathing and speaking and  _ being _ , without the weight of anxiety bending his head.

Tony stalked across the workshop floor, movements so decisive that Steve almost took a step back. For a second he expected to be gripped around the collar, jerked down to Tony’s level – but Tony stopped scant inches away, breaths controlled and eyes on fire. When he spoke, it was as direct and non-tangential as Steve had ever heard him.  

“I knew you were on a blind date and when I heard you were planning to meet at the Tower itself, I couldn’t help myself. I never intended to take over the date. Or to hurt you in any way.”

“I know–”

“You still need to hear it.” Tony cut through, bluntly succinct. He’d never sounded sincerer. “Also you’re goddamn incredible.”

_ It wasn’t a joke.  _ And Steve had already known – but it was the difference between closing your eyes and leaping without a parachute, and the moment you were caught. It was staring into Tony’s eyes, breaths ramping up together; like they were seventy feet in the air and still flying, and never wanting to come down.

Tony leaned up.

Steve’s hands spasmed by his side –  _ oh god oh god oh god oh look my anxiety’s back –  _ fingers flexing in imagined, desperate sense-memory: the worn cotton of Tony’s t-shirt, the stubbled underside of his jaw, the thin skin of his eyelids, the spiky softness of his hair. So many places to reach out towards, to touch and stroke and hold, and Steve couldn’t seem to bring himself to–

And then it didn’t matter, because Tony’s lips were  _ right there  _ and Steve closed his eyes. A feather-light touch, a single point of contact. Dry heat and absolute stillness – like they were balanced, perfectly, on the edge and neither wanted to move and break the spell. God, Tony could probably  _ feel  _ Steve’s cheeks blazing with heat from this distance – and it didn’t  _ matter  _ because Steve could feel Tony’s and this was–

Perfect _. _

Tony pulled away slowly, settling down on the balls of his feet. He seemed a little out of it, tone faintly starstruck. “I feel like I just got kissed by Prince Charming.”

“Oh. Um.” This was far from Steve’s first kiss since the forties, though some people might call this barely a kiss. It didn’t matter. It was  _ perfect _ . “Sorry?”

“No no, it’s fine.” Tony batted his hands distractedly, still a little wondrous. “I like Disney movies better than pornos anyway.”

“We don’t have to choose.” Steve replied on autopilot – and Tony froze in place for a second, before swaying forward until his forehead hit Steve’s shoulder, hiding his snickers in Steve’s plaid shirt. Because somehow Steve had found a man who appreciated both his deeply visceral awkwardness, as well as his out-of-body sass.

Tony breathed warm and damp against Steve’s chest before tilting his head sideways, bristly beard hairs scraping distractingly over thin cloth. His resting cheek rose and fell with Steve’s breaths, and he glanced up in a smile that could wreck millions. “Blue.”

Steve, who was expecting some kind of devastating comeback/come-on, wrinkled his brows in confusion. Tony’s small, answering laugh vibrated against his chest. “My favourite colour.”

Right, right. First date conversation. Steve wracked his, admittedly slow-functioning brain for an appropriate follow up. Sue him, he had a Tony Stark in his arms. “What shade?”

Tony’s lips curved into something dreamy, taffy-sweet. “Steve-blue.”

Steve stared back, more than a little light in the head. His mouth was moving outside his volition, “That’s not a–”

Tony stretched up on his toes, pecked him again – a soft murmur to punctuate the motion. “Is to me.”

Steve shut his eyes. Waited, for reality to kick back in, for sanity to kick him in the head. Speaking of which –

_ You’ve been quiet. _

_ You had it handled.  _ Bucky’s voice replied in his head, wry and proud.  _ Now go back to life, hotshot. _

 

When Steve opened his eyes, Tony was still there. He didn’t teach kindergarten by day, or work in puppy shelters by night, though Steve was pretty sure that Tony did more humanitarian work than all the NYC charities combined. He’d probably laugh himself silly at all of Steve’s creased Pocono Mountains brochures, and drag him kicking and screaming to Hawaii in summer. He was an Avenger, and a good man, and…

_ Always think of the brightest outcome possible before entering a situation. _

“I don’t think I could’ve imagined you if I had tried.”

“Well then.” Tony smiled slowly, like the start of a new day and the morning sunrise. “Suppose it’s a good thing you don’t have to.”

 

 

~ __ fin   
  
  
  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are welcome! ;)


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